


Scorched Earth Policy

by thepurplewombat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Mycroft is a BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurplewombat/pseuds/thepurplewombat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two things everyone knows about Mycroft Holmes: He's the sane Holmes brother, and he loves Sherlock.<br/>Only one of those turns out to be true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scorched Earth Policy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [destinationtoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/gifts).
  * Inspired by [They're All That's Left You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123923) by [destinationtoast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast). 



It’s been a long time since Mycroft has allowed himself a killing rage. Years and years, in fact. But if there was ever an appropriate time for it, now is that time.

He can be patient, though. He’s not Sherlock, who has to have everything _now_ , no matter the consequences. He can wait.

He makes himself wait, tasting the sweet anticipation, and it’s all the better for it, because when black-clad men snatch John Watson off the streets and bundle him into a waiting van, the good doctor is taken completely by surprise.

Mycroft waits again, while the drugs wear off and John’s eyes blink open slowly. It takes some time for him to register the hard metal chair, the desk. The man on the other side of it.

When John finally looks at him, Mycroft smiles. The doctor flinches.

“Mycroft? What-“

Mycroft holds up a single finger and Watson’s teeth click together as he shuts his mouth.

“Do you know the meaning of the phrase ‘scorched earth policy’, Doctor Watson?”

“I-what?”

Mycroft steeples his hands and looks at John over his fingertips.

“Cheap scare tactics won’t work on me, Mycroft,” John says finally, but his voice is shaking. Subconsciously, he must know that his life is at the mercy of someone who has absolutely no reason to grant him any.

To reinforce that, Mycroft slides a set of photos across the table. All of them are of Sherlock. Sherlock leaning over John as he sleeps, his face filled with a kind of desperate, terrified joy. Sherlock and John together, and while John is only looking at Sherlock some of the time, there isn’t a single picture where Sherlock isn’t watching him, his entire heart laid out for anyone with eyes to see.

 _Oh_ , there’s a thought. The good doctor obviously had no use for them anymore…but no.

“What is this?” John asked.

“Sherlock likes to pretend he has no heart,” Mycroft says conversationally. “He’s rather fond of that ridiculous diagnosis of his, _sociopath_ , and bless him, he tries so hard. He’s gotten rather good at it too, at the game of pretending. My brother’s not a sociopath – and spare me your bleating about terminology, because we both know what I mean when I say that. Interestingly enough, I was never diagnosed. I wasn’t a problem child like Sherlock. I was quiet and dutiful and polite. I spoke early and well, and charmed my teachers and parents and classmates.” Mycroft smiles again. More a smirk, really, across the metal table at his brother's former flatmate. “I realised early on that I would have to be very careful, or I would be discovered. And so I was. Careful, and quiet, and so very polite.” He leans over the table, and he knows that the overhead light casts shadows on his face that don’t belong there, that he’s suddenly a nightmare creature with gleaming eyes. “Sherlock isn’t a sociopath, Doctor Watson, but I am.” 

“Mycroft-“ the doctor doesn’t say anything else. It’s amazing how quickly people shut up when you have a knife to their throats and _oh_ , he’s missed this. He could kill John Watson right now, and nobody could stop him – nobody would _dare_.

Mycroft walks around the table and rests a hip on the corner, the tip of his knife barely moving against John’s throat.

“Back to my initial question. Scorched earth policy. You’ve heard of it?”

John nods, carefully.

“That’s good. That’s very good,” Mycroft croons, and strokes Watson’s head. “I’m so pleased. Because that means that we can dispense with tedious explanations.”

“Mycroft, I didn’t-“

“I’m _talking_ , Watson,” Mycroft snaps, and digs the knife in, just a little. Just enough to make his…point. “Let me make myself absolutely clear. You hurt Sherlock. You took advantage of his feelings for you in the most despicable way, and when you had no further use for him you cast him aside. Is that about right? Nod for yes.” John nods. “And so, let me explain to you what’s going to happen. You are going to go home, to your wife. You’re going to be faithful to her. You are never, ever, going to lay a finger on my little brother again. If you should find yourself in a similar situation again – should you need the comfort of Sherlock’s body and his undying devotion, please remember this conversation. Because I swear to you, John Watson, if you do this to him again I will hurt you in ways you can’t even imagine. I will _ruin_ you. Am I clear?”

John gulps, his Adams apple bobbing against the tip of the knife.

“I never meant to hurt him, you know.”

“Intentions don’t matter, John, only results. And the result of this little game you played with him is that Sherlock is in my spare bedroom right now, deleting six months of his life. I blame myself too, of course. After the last time, I should have had you killed. Or better yet, I should have made sure that _dear_ Mary never recovered. Such a sweet woman, such a pity. Surrounded by medication, who knows what could happen?” Mycroft trails the knife down John’s throat, his eyes fixed in the drops of blood that well in its wake. It’s so tempting. It would be so easy, to kill him right now.

But no. Let him go back to his vapid wife and his boring life, knowing that every breath he takes is due to Mycroft’s mercy. Let him slowly destroy himself with guilt and resentment. Give him time to destroy any vestiges of feeling Sherlock has for him.  _Then_ , when his death won't hurt Sherlock more than his continued existence...then it will be time for Mycroft to play. And it will be so much sweeter for the anticipation of it.

Mycroft makes himself straighten up, drop the knife.

His assistant smiles at him from the doorway, always just where he needs her to be.

“Ah, my dear. See Doctor Watson home, would you? I have some things to tend to.”

And he walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> I read Destinationtoast's fabulous 'They're all that's left you' again by accident yesterday, and was once more overcome with the urge to hit John Watson repeatedly with something very heavy.  
> Enter Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
